Banana Pancakes
by LovelyLittleFreckle
Summary: Red seeks to change Liz's mind about her dislike of pancakes. One shot.


"Have you seen my jacket, Red, the one with the hood?" Liz yelled from the bedroom, dropping the back of her earring as she fumbled to secure it. "We're late, it's raining."

She was answered not by words, but by the clanking of pots and pans. If he heard her, he had chosen to ignore her the way he did when he was preoccupied, or willfully dismissing her as was his tendency when he thought his task at hand more important.

"Red?" she shouted into the kitchen, peeking around the corner to see him standing, not at the stove but over a griddle. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows as he stood, hands on his hips, watching as the hot surface sizzled.

"Uh, what the hell are you doing?" she said, securing the earring finally and pointing at the clock on the wall. "We are already late, we were supposed to be at The Post Office by eight, its eight fifteen!"

Without looking at her, he motioned to the twin bar stools that overlooked the counter he was working on.

"I already called Cooper and told him that Dembe was having car trouble," Red said, finally smiling at her mischievously. His grin was brief but genuine as he turned his attention quickly back to the griddle.

"Very funny – we have a briefing with the Director of Homeland Security in half an hour to go over the case," she said, clearly exasperated.

"The meeting was cancelled; evidently the Department thought the appointment could wait."

"Which department decided on that, the Department of Homeland Security or the Department of Negligent Jackasses?" she said, hands on her hips. He laughed at her, peeking up at her only for another brief moment.

"It seems that both departments were on the same page this morning," he said, fiddling with the temperature knob.

"Regardless, we have work to do," she said, with something now falling short of genuine concern.

"Lizzie I can assure you there is no work to be done until at least 10am at The Post Office. Word around the water cooler is that Aram found a virus on the network and the computers are down."

"Oh yeah? And who might have had one of his friends at MIT arrange that?" Liz said, accusatorially.

"It all honesty, when it comes to injecting some chaos into a situation for my own ends, I'm much simpler a man, much more sentimental. I'm more the pull-the-fire-alarm-on-test-day type. Direct. Uncomplicated."

Liz was observant enough now to realize when she was at Red's mercy, as difficult and particular as it was. She settled onto one of the stools, leaning over the bar to better discern what he might be cooking. There was a layer of butter simmering on the griddle, a bowl of batter next to it and measuring cups in the sink.

"Oh no," Liz said, leaning away.

"What?" Red asked.

"Are you making pancakes?" she said, wrinkling her nose before she had the time to stop herself.

"Yes," he said.

"I don't like pancakes."

"You will like these," he said, brightening a bit at the challenge. "It's an original recipe. Banana with scratch-made candied pecans and maple butter. I would hand-make the maple butter but after doing a few favors for the man who runs the dairy stand at the farmer's market, I haven't had to make it for years."

"I don't… do… pancakes," she said trying to sound resolute but not ungrateful.

"Because you haven't enjoyed them properly," he said, spooning batter onto the sizzling griddle and then immediately stepping back to admire his work. "A person needs a strong cup of coffee, just bitter enough to cut the sweetness from the pancakes. And the Sunday paper. Something about the smell of newsprint is, in my opinion, key to the whole experience." He gestured grandly but delicately, like he was conducting an orchestra, squinting as he looked off, trying to find the right words.

For all her frustration with him and all her incredulity, she sensed that there was something more at play this time. His eyes were alive, dancing for the first time since they'd met. In the time she had been living in his safe houses for protection, he had never cooked for her even though she knew that he loved to cook. Generally he dragged her along on his usual morning coffee run, insisting upon buying her something – nagging her a bit until she pointed out something from the bakery case.

"What's going on with you today?" she asked, kicking her heels off under the bar and sliding the paper toward her, rustling aimlessly through the pages. She stopped as she saw the date on the top of the paper. July 10th. Her breath caught.

"Red? Is it her birthday?"

Red's wife had been only a passing figure in the grand scheme of his vast case file, but she remembered her birthdate. The same as Sam's. She had felt a passing affection for the deceased woman who had been so profoundly and fatally affected by Red's early dalliances in corruption. Caroline. She had always been fond of that name.

He didn't flinch from his tasks, flipping the pancakes on the griddle, percolating coffee in an angular metal pot and fussing with the pecans caramelizing on the stove.

"She requested these every year on her birthday," Red started. "Usually it would be so hot outside by a July evening that she didn't want to risk heating the whole house from cooking, so we'd go out for dinner. But I always insisted on cooking for her; she knew how much I loved it. So before the day got too hot, I would make her these pancakes. I have continued doing this every year. Because not only do I find myself missing her, but I find myself missing the pancakes."

Liz felt herself well up with tears, watching him closely as he snuck a glance at her. He did not look sad; he looked contemplative but strangely energized in a way she'd never seen. She could picture vividly in her mind Red as a young husband, still romantic in his sincerity and love. She reached across the bar, extending her hands toward him. She beckoned him to hold them, curling her fingers. He noticed her hands there after taking the pancakes off the griddle, plating them on simple white plates. His hands were rough, grasping hers tightly.

"Thank you for cooking," she said.

"You're welcome," he said, leaning down to press his lips against her knuckles. "Now watch the master work."

He spread maple butter over two plates stacked with his fluffy pancakes, and she tried to get past the texture to which she had never been partial… though she had to admit the butter was enticing. He took the pan of candied pecans off the stove and sprinkled them over the top, then poured two cups of coffee out of his strange little metal pot. He set out cream and sugar and then presented her breakfast to her. He looked eager as he rounded the bar, sitting beside her on a stool.

She was keenly aware that he was watching her as she picked up her fork and her knife. She smiled over at him and he motioned toward her plate, clearly anticipating her reaction.

"I wouldn't steer you wrong, would I?" he asked as she hesitated. She sighed; resigning herself to how important this was to him even though he would never outwardly betray it to her.

Cutting into the short, pillowy stack, she took a bite. It was unlike anything she had ever tasted – almost like cake. She could taste vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg… just sweet enough to wake her taste buds but not cloyingly so. She closed her eyes as she appreciated the warmth, the flavors… it was divine. She hated to admit when he was right, but it was easy to look over into his eyes and smile.

"You win," she said, reaching for her coffee. She smiled as she took her turn watching him take a bite of his masterpiece. She felt all at once grateful for such an intimate look at the man himself instead of the man who was her job.

As the rain drove against the skylight in the kitchen, she dragged her bar stool closer to his. She placed a spoonful of sugar in his coffee and stirred in just enough cream to lighten the dark brown brew.

"That's how you like it, right?" she asked, remembering his morning coffee order.

"Thank you," he said, reaching over and placing his hand on her knee, stroking her leg with his thumb. "Tomorrow I'll make blueberry."

She turned back to the pancakes she wished she could spend all day coveting. And for the first time in her life, Liz found herself counting the hours until it was time for pancakes.


End file.
